


True in All Minds but His

by singularly_obsessed (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, also rings, but kind of technically not, i mean in a round about way, more like alternate customs in the universe, rings have a shit load of info apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singularly_obsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally settled in, putting the paper aside. She briefly glanced over it before choosing a file, then suddenly whipped back, snatching it up and all but shouting, “Bloody hell! Since when has <em>he</em> been wearing a <em>widow’s ring?”</em></p>
<p>“Who?” Greg muttered into his file.</p>
<p>“Doctor Watson!”</p>
<p>Greg put down his file.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True in All Minds but His

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha so this isn't that one sequel. Oops. But. Soon?
> 
> Anyway, prrrft, I should maybe warn you that there is a smidge of depression. Well. This is post-trf, of course there is. Just. If you can't even stand the mention of it, turn around. Now.
> 
> Unbeta'd and sort of half-britpicked, per usual. Also as usual, anyone want to have a go contact me [here](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/)

“Sir.”

Mycroft tried not to sigh too visibly. It was not his assistant’s fault his brother insisted on infrequent contact while he spun recklessly around the spider’s nest, just as she had no control over what needed his attention on the home front. He has trained her well, to the point that this interruption must be of the utmost importance, but what exactly the problem was he could not at first pinpoint. That was, until he glanced up and observed the thin manila file in her outstretched hand. Taking into account the absence of her mobile cemented precisely _what_ the folder held.

And it did not bode well.

“How bad is it?” he demanded, palm upturned to receive it.

She hesitated, and if Mycroft hadn’t already had steel control over his body, his heart rate would have risen. “I don’t know,” she finally answered. “We aren’t sure when it occurred, and the analysts can’t predict what it means within the guidelines he dictated.”

“And using my parameters?” Mycroft countered, flipping the cover to reveal the first glossy photograph. He blinked, admittedly surprised. Surprised and relieved, but no less cautious—this could make to be worse than his own darker theorizing.

“More inconclusive than using his.”

Mycroft remained silent, turning over the stills periodically. When he reached the last copy, he laced his hands together, leaning to purse his lips against the joints of his fingers. “What outcomes did they manage to predict?”

“The usual, sir, though with a much less stable timeline.”

“And the final outcome’s estimated period…?”

“Ranges anytime from the end of the week to three years.”

“The _percent risk,_ it is no more than normal.” It wasn’t a question, but she confirmed it anyway.

“They don’t believe so, sir.”

Mycroft nodded minutely, flicking the file closed and away, turning back to his laptop. “Send it to a reliable source, have them run it. Oh, and do secure a copy before release, and be sure _he_ receives it in a … timely fashion.”

Anthea’s phone makes its appearance. “Is that all?”

“Move surveillance to level six, and find who missed this. I would like a _word.”_

“Of course, sir.”

\- - -

Greg hated paperwork. He hated it almost as much as he hated the scum he put away (though the department hasn’t been pulling as many since Sherlock went and—well), but it’s a necessary evil he’s learned not to complain about. He’s lucky enough his name was cleared the same time Sherlock’s was, and Greg has no doubt Mycroft was the one behind the fall of ‘Richard Brook’. Little too late, for all it got those vultures off John’s back.

Greg leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. It was always too late when it came to those two.

Sally knocked lightly on his door, poking her head in. “Want a hand?”

“God bless you,” Greg sighed, eager for the distraction. The day never ended well when he let his thoughts wander down that path.

Sally smiled, pushing the door wider with her hip, hands loaded with coffee and the morning’s paper. “Thought you might like a little help,” she said, handing him one of the cardboard cups. He cradled it gently, enjoying the warmth before taking a cautious sip and— _yes,_ this was the _good stuff._

“Oh, I owe you, Sally Donovan,” he moaned as the caffeine hit. “Next time you need a day or five off—”

"I’ll hold you to it,” Sally promised, pulling up a chair and clearing a bit of room. Greg took one last heavenly sip before pushing it away, trading it for another file. Coffee that good needed to be rationed, as painful it was to do so.

Sally settled in, putting the paper aside. She briefly glanced over it before choosing a file, then suddenly whipped back, snatching it up and all but shouting, “Bloody hell! Since when has _he_ been wearing a _widow’s ring?”_

“Who?” Greg muttered into his file eyeing the coffee. Screw rationing, really, he could get more…

“Doctor Watson!”

Greg put down his file, blindly reaching for his cup. Screw rationing, _indeed._

\- - -

It was waiting for him on the side table.

He’d ignored it at first, too focused on _shower/clean--bed/sleep_ to care about anything else. And he'd have _kept_ ignoring it too, if the blocked number hadn't texted him awake the following morning with: 

> **Received 8:10**
> 
> Read the paper.  
>  M

He groaned, allowing the phone to fall from his hand as he rolled over, bringing him to face the table the damn thing rested on. Which had likely been the bastard’s intention all along. His phone beeped again, and he sighed, flinging his arm out to drag the paper to him. Best do as his royal cake-eater wished if he wanted to catch any more rest before the next leg of his mission.

He didn’t understand why the issue was important. It would be today’s paper, back home, and while it had been some time since John was front page—

Oh.

_Oh._

No. No, there was more to this, he was _missing something,_ there was no way this meant what he thought it did. Sitting upright, he devoured the story, _but it didn’t make sense, he needed more data—_

He lunged for his phone, the paper scattering across the bed. The unread message taunted him, saying:

> **Received 8:11**
> 
> It is in your best interest to wrap this up quickly.  
>  M

> **Sent 8:17**
> 
> When did this happen.

> **Received 8:18**
> 
> We are not entirely sure.  
>  M

> **Sent 8:19**
> 
> You are supposed to be watching over him.

> **Received 8:20**
> 
> And we are.  
>  M

> **Sent 8:21**
> 
> Do not toy with me. Why did this happen.

> **Received 8:22**
> 
> You know why.  
>  M

He threw his phone down; no more information would come from it. He sprung off the bed, too agitated to remain still any longer. How _dare_ he, he snarls internally, how dare he show him this, he _cannot afford distractions,_ not now, there’s too much left—

The phone chirped again, and he knew what it said before he tapped the message.

> **Received 8:25**
> 
> Hurry home.  
>  M

He thought about smashing it, and his fist tightened around the case, ready to bash it against the wall or floor, perhaps out the window—

He _needed_ data. There was a way to get data.

It was risky; he’d already asked much from her.

_But he needed **data.**_

Closing out of one conversation, he opened another; typing the number he hasn’t found reason to delete yet.

\- - -

John had known it was only a matter of time. He was actually quite surprised (and not a little proud) that it’d taken the public this long to realize his silent declaration. Then again, he hadn’t exactly gone and made a show of it.

So when he woke up to the ceaseless buzzing of his phone, he shut it off. He wandered downstairs, drew the curtains tight against the lightning-like flashes outside. He made sure the bell was still disabled before locking the doors. Mrs Hudson would understand. John was fairly certain she already knew, but if she didn’t, well…she would see the doors, and she would keep her peace. They’d grown to a new kind of understanding, after John had moved back in.

(He’d been unable to stay away for long. It hurt being here, but it’d hurt worse being away.)

He wandered back to the kitchen, needing his morning cuppa before he thought too hard on how to handle this. _If_ he should handle it. Fourteen months after all of That, and you’d think people would grow tired of picking him apart. Unsurprisingly, it appeared the social harpies knew no bounds.

The kettle whistled, bringing him back. The little gold band on his middle finger knocked sharply against the ceramic mug as he grabbed it off the counter. He didn’t startle at it anymore.

He took his tea to his chair, settling in to listen to the flat noises. It used to amaze him (and still did, a bit), how _loud_ the flat actually was. He’d never known before how it creaked so much when it rained. Now that the internal hurricane had spent itself, John supposed it was only natural other sounds took his place.

He sighed, blowing across the surface of his tea as his eyes eventually found themselves on the other chair. The green lump had dragged him down so deep at first (it was the reason he’d fled in the first place), that when he’d returned he’d thought about removing it. But when he’d tried to visualize the space without it, there just seemed to be _too much room,_ and that had struck too close to the truth for John. So he’d left it.

(Sometimes you have to bleed to know you’re alive, after all.)

~~(But where is the point of bleeding too much?)~~

Now it was a twisted sort of comfort. One of the last things that were completely _his._ John had left the flat a few months after the funeral, blind with his pain, leaving almost everything untouched. When he’d returned eight weeks later, most of _his_ things had been removed: the chemistry set gone from the table, _his_ room reminiscent of a hotel’s, his books and papers and music all hidden away. John has no idea where any of it went, and no one’s told him either. He felt curious only about the violin, had nearly asked Mrs Hudson if she knew where it was, if only to reassure himself that it wasn’t in anyone else’s hands. His chest ached with betrayal each time he envisioned it singing for someone new.

But John restrained himself. He knew if he asked after one thing, he’d start to wonder about them all, and that was not a good trap to fall in.

But the chair. The chair was safer than anything (he’d sat in it once or twice, before, but it’d always felt odd)(he didn’t dare do more than look at it now), mostly because he didn’t really know what to do with it. He could put it in the downstairs bedroom, get a new chair (perhaps one that actually matched), but that would require _going in his bedroom,_ which was something he’s certain he’d never be ready for.

So the chair stayed.

~~(Empty and unused, just like John.)~~

\- - -

> **Sent 15:12**
> 
> Well?

> **Received 15:38**
> 
> I haven’t talked to him; he doesn’t answer the phone.

> **Sent 15:39**
> 
> Contact him another way!

> **Received 15:43**
> 
> Christmas is a couple weeks away, can you wait that long?

> **Sent 15:43**
> 
> Fine.

\- - -

He could feel them staring.

They were trying not to, trying to be respectful, but this was the first time they _saw_ it, saw that it wasn’t some kind of horrid misunderstanding everyone just up-and-ran with. John wasn’t offended; he understood their fleeting glances at his left hand. He knew he’d have done the same, in their places.

It’d been a few weeks, since the original headline. Long enough that more interesting things had come and gone, long enough that the treks to work and back weren’t an elaborate mix of tag and hide-and-seek. Out of sight out of mind, as the saying went. Perfectly logical that being faced with it brought back the questions.

“Did you ever…tell him?”

John glanced to his left, a bit surprised that Molly was the one to start. Then again, maybe not. He’d never seen her much, before or after That, but compared to last Christmas, something about her had…filled. Mousy no longer described her.

“Tell—no, god no. He didn’t—he wasn’t…” John cleared his throat, conscious of the table listening. “He told me he wasn’t looking, when we first met, and I respected his decision.”

Molly frowned, looking down at her fork fiddling with the greens. “But then why…the ring…?”

John’s eyes fell to the band. _Why_ was a thought he’d often had. “It’s easier,” he began softly. “People don’t see widows as a challenge, not like they do the non-lookers. Wouldn’t be right to anyone else, anyway; can’t give them something I don’t have.” He twisted it around his finger, watching the light glide over it. He polished it every other week; same time as he cleaned his gun. “Could you pass me the bread?”

\- - -

> **Sent 23:26**
> 
> You saw him today, yes?

> **Received 23:39**
> 
> I did.

> **Sent 23:39**
> 
> And?

> **Received 23:43**
> 
> How close are you to finishing?

\- - -

John was awake before his alarm again.

_Long_ before his alarm.

He knew he’d never get back to sleep (it was already hard enough getting there the first time), but was tea worth getting out of bed? What was he going to do with the morning hours after he drank it? Read? There’d certainly be nothing good on the telly this early.

He got out of bed anyway. Lying up there until it was decent to rise would have driven him mad, anyhow.

He was halfway down the stairs before he realized one of the living room lamps was on. He paused, trying to remember if he’d wandered to bed without turning it off, then thought about retreating back upstairs for his gun. He’d need it, if anyone was down there, seeing as they’d either avoided or dismantled Mycroft’s cameras outside the flat.

But that would corner him (there was no way the intruder hadn’t heard him on the steps), and his soldier instincts loathed to give whoever it was any more time to prepare. They knew who he was, likely expected him to arm himself. Going straight for the confrontation might throw them off enough for John to gain some kind of leverage.

Hands steady, John nudged the door open, his eyes adjusting before his heart coughed.

Sherlock Holmes sat, curled sideways in his chair, lanky hair falling into face, dark eyes and darker shadows beneath them watching John over the bumps of his knees. His clothes were ragged and much too big, a fact that John couldn’t stop circling around. _Sherlock Holmes_ and _ill-fitting trousers_ wasn’t something he’d thought a part of reality.

_He must be dreaming,_ John thought, and Sherlock’s face tightened, wrinkling in on itself (he must have said that aloud).

“John,” he rasped pleadingly, starting to unfold himself. “John, I—”

“Don’t,” John warned, and Sherlock stilled. “Don’t. I might just hit you. And I don’t think I’d stop.”

The air slipped out of Sherlock, and without moving he shrank, sucked into himself. John took a breath, and another, and kept doing so as he moved into the room, making the sofa his place. Sherlock seemed smaller when John opened his eyes, temple resting on the back of the chair. He looked at John like it hurt, but he didn’t look away, didn’t blink. John took a breath and held it, steeling himself.

“How?”

The fabric over Sherlock’s shoulders whispered, a nearly non-existent shrug. “Does it matter?”

John moved on. “Why?”

Sherlock finally looked away. Looked away towards John’s chair. “Moriarty. He had a gun on you.” He paused. “And others.”

John frowned, lips thinning. He leaned back, crossing his arms firmly. “And faking your suicide fixed that how?”

“He wanted me dead.” Sherlock was monotonous. “So I was. And now so are they.”

John froze, because that…that sounded a bit not good. “You…killed them?”

Sherlock sighed, lids falling closed. “I had to. His network had to fall; it was the only way.”

“And I couldn’t have helped you?” John was (admittedly) hurt. He’d been to war, he knew what that violence did. He was _used_ to it, just one more dream with the others, and Sherlock…Sherlock obviously _wasn’t._ John wanted to shake him, demand to know what made him untrustworthy, but he didn’t. He didn’t move from his perch on the couch.

Sherlock’s eyes were back on his face, reading his mind as always when he shook his head. “I would not put you through that.”

“I’m not helpless, Sherlock.”

“No,” he agreed, “I am selfish.”

That brought John up short. In any other circumstance, with any other person, John would know what that meant. But here, with him…? Unstable was Sherlock’s modus operandi.

“I cannot lose you,” Sherlock added in whisper, posture sagging defeated against the cushions.

_But I still may,_ John heard him complete soundlessly, and that was it. He’d never been able to stay rational with the man, and it wasn’t something likely to change. (And he didn’t mind it all that much).

“Come here,” he commanded, and Sherlock frowned, but stood nonetheless, shuffling around the coffee table, hovering by John’s feet. John grumbled (though he had no one to blame but himself, he had said he might hit him), snagging Sherlock’s wrist and tugging him down to curl in his lap, head tucked beneath his jaw.

Sherlock sighed weakly, melting his full weight against John. He was made of more angles and points than John would like, but it was a matter easily fixed, John reminded himself, smoothing Sherlock’s hair back from his face, hand travelling down his neck to massage his back. Sherlock released another breathy sigh, his hand twisting to capture John’s from his wrist (he hadn’t even realized he’d kept it there). His fingertips found the warm gold band, thumb brushing back and forth, and John smiled down at his head.

“Go on,” he urged, adding when Sherlock froze. “Deduce it.”

Sherlock began immediately, words spilling out of him almost desperately. “Fourteen carat band, atypical choice for a widow’s ring, but you bought it to be discreet—at first glance it nearly blends in with your skin tone. The polish gives it away, though: you care for it, regularly, which means either the loved one recently passed and the memories are still strong or you were close, very close, but more likely a combination of the two. You haven’t been fiddling with it, so not new, but there are very few scratches on it, taking into account how often you utilize your hands. Could be taking it off altogether when you work, it being on your dominant hand—high possibility, you value practicality and efficiency as well as privacy, but something like this, with high sentimental significance attached? Inconclusive without more data.

“The style is four, five years old, not eye-catching either way—again, for discretion. You didn’t want it to make a statement, but you wanted your perceived status to be recognized. Yes, _perceived:_ no tan line on either ring finger or the right fifth digit. Neither promised, engaged, or married yet somehow you see yourself widowed. Then whom are you widowed to? The ring is fairly gender-neutral, both in wearer’s style and representation, but as stated you are _sentimental,”_ Sherlock spread John’s hand, grabbing the band between his thumb and index finger, tugging, “meaning there is a reminder on it _somewhere,”_ the ring slipped past his fingertip, “highest possibility being an engraving on the—”

John smiled. He still had it in him, even after the bastard went and died and came back, to surprise him. _“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_ he murmured into his hair. Sherlock said nothing, and John cleared his throat. “You’re not really this surprised, are you?”

“Not surprised,” Sherlock corrected, tilting his head back to meet John’s gaze. His smile was soft and awed. _“Relieved.”_

\- - -

**Author's Note:**

> Mmm, yeah. So, little explanation:
> 
> So those rings, yeah? I like this little idea, and I've had it for ages. Essentially, where one wears their ring is extremely important. I figure most of it is kind of self-explanatory, but here I am, explaining it. I just like to hear myself type.
> 
> So, the meanings for engagement/married are the same. Ring on the right pinkie means promised (slightly different from engaged, less strict), and ring on the middle right is basically a 'fuck off' sign. They aren't looking. Period. Kind of similar with rings on the left middle, except they're not looking because they've lost someone. Tradition stands that the wearer was 'widowed' (hence the name), either in the engagement or matrimony. Obviously John did not give half a fuck about that. I didn't need any other fingers, so I didn't assign them anything. Because why? I won't be using them. Yet.
> 
> Little note on Sherlock's behavior: I absolutely _adore_ the idea that he refused to have any kind of information about John passed to him while he was away. Of course, keeping that in mind, Sherlock couldn't be sure the ring was for him, since it first appeared several months after his 'suicide', and without data on John, he wouldn't know if he'd been married or not. Hence the insecurity. But you're all smart devils, you knew that. 
> 
> So anyway, questions and what-not always go to my [tumblr](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/). I would so love for you to say hello or something!


End file.
